BBC 221b
by KayteaEM
Summary: This is a response to KCS' 221b challenge, however in this case I've adapted it for the BBC Sherlock universe as opposed to the Doyle universe. These are mini fics exploring the lives of Sherlock and John - canon additions, AUs, and everything in between.
1. Booze

**A/N: As stated in the summary this is a response to KCS' 221b challenge. Each chapter is 221 words with the last word beginning with the letter 'b,' all taking place within the BBC **_**Sherlock**_** universe. **

**UPDATE – If any of you have read this series prior to 1/26/14 you'll notice a whole lot of changes. Mainly I've fixed some mistakes in the writing and, more importantly, deleted the "Funeral Games" arc as well as the majority of the old stories (specifically, all but two). Why? Because they were absolutely dreadful and I don't know why I let them stay up as long as I did. I have lots of new ideas for 221b fics, especially after the third season, so hopefully this will now be a much better collection! If, for some **_**very **_**odd reason you're still interested in reading the old stuff, just send me a PM. **

**Onwards! And as always, thanks for reading! **

Christmas Eve. Pie in hand John sidled up to the eldest Holmes, currently engaged in fixing a dry martini.

"Well," he said, "I see now where they got it from." The elder man's eyebrows rose. "Those two," John clarified. He pointed to Sherlock, deliberately throwing hot dishes on top of Mycroft's computer. John had to raise his voice above the yelling. "Those idiots can tell you exactly what you had for breakfast based on the state of your shoes. Your wife—" Mrs. Holmes was jumping between her boys, sauce covered spoon in hand. "She's the math marvel, right? I read a bit of her book. It's pretty impressive. But you, sir, are the true genius in this family."

"Am I! Now how do you figure that, John?" Mr. Holmes laughed, right as there was a loud _whack! _that echoed across the kitchen tile. Sherlock let out a howl, exaggeratedly holding the hand that now sported a red welt. Mycroft smirked until he too got a wallop on the arm. The resulting, "_Mummy!_" would have devastated the nation's image, had the public heard it.

"A simple deduction." John said, shouting and grinning now. He snatched another glass and dangled it imploringly before his host. "We've got _three more days_ in this house together and you're the only one opening the booze."


	2. Back

There was too much. Always too much.

Six holes in the wall. Two up, four down, three no more than 1.54 centimeters apart. His painted face was cracking in thirteen places, peeling in seven, the color was beginning to fade into two distinct, opposing patches. The sound from the bullets that made the holes that cracked the paint created a ringing in his ears that reverberated every nine-hundred and ninety-eight milliseconds.

Then:

A door slamming with 37% more force than was customary. Two feet exerting themselves up seventeen steps and producing three distinctive squeaks. The smell of antiseptics permeating the air.

A voice raised an octave higher than normal, exclaiming loudly. A body coming closer at a rate of 3.4 miles per hour. A hand, twice as warm as his, clasping firmly around his carpal bones.

Silence.

Then suddenly it was gone. Placing the gun six inches from the edge of the table. Removing himself from his space a mere, disappointingly, twenty-two seconds later. Putting an extra 11% of his weight on his non-psychosomatic leg. Walking out at a rate of roughly 3.7 miles per hour, a full .2 miles faster than the speed he'd clocked when arriving.

Sherlock hefted the gun again, shot, and began counting down the two minutes, fourteen seconds it would take for John to come back.


	3. Bowl

"Oh my god."

Giving up on dignity John plunged his head into the toilet. It still felt like his internal organs were slithering up his throat. It looked that way too: pink vomit interlaced with something green and chunky. My god and it smelled.

Nausea subsiding a bit John slowly lifted his head to see Sherlock hovering in the doorway. He held a glass of water in his hands.

"If you think," John growled, "that I am going to ingest_ anything_ you give me, you're more of an idiot than Anderson!"

He'd come home to find tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies on their kitchen table. Thinking that Mrs. Hudson had once again opted to spoil him with sweets, he'd happily gulped them down.

Twenty minutes later he'd realized it was another of Sherlock's experiments. Visine had been added to the tea and batter.

"It's not my fault you think with your stomach." The words were clipped, but Sherlock twisted the glass nervously. "I needed to see if Mrs. Crammer used her daughter's afternoon snack to make her sick." He paused, swallowed. "Well... you've managed to prove that high heat doesn't negate the effects!"

John was going to kill him.

Or better yet...

He got his revenge when Sherlock finally kneeled beside him, and John "accidentally" missed the toilet bowl.


	4. Break

"Your loss would break my heart."

It wouldn't be the first time. On nights when covert wars are brewing, or when the game is on, Mycroft has his age-old nightmare—more of a memory, really—of that day when he came home to a three year old Sherlock dismantling his nursery, shrieking that everything was _too much, too much, too much_, and Mycroft realized with horror that his brother was going to be exactly like him.

That day became the tipping point for everything else. Fast forward fifteen years and Sherlock flew through his days on a high—literally. With his normally manic personality tripled Sherlock went from deconstructing his surrounding, to strangers, to, finally, Mycroft himself. With every deduction now a pressure point, that time became a period they couldn't easily come back from.

Mycroft watched as his brother poisoned himself for years. Then he watched as John Watson arrived and, in twelve hours, did more for Sherlock than Mycroft had managed in a lifetime.

That was a loss all its own.

Mycroft sat back as Sherlock began throwing himself to the real murderers and psychopaths. He forced a smile and let his brother jump off a roof.

He let him kill a man.

Sometimes, Mycroft wonders how many times he can lose Sherlock before his heart well and truly breaks.


	5. Beast

"A ship, Captain! Off the starboard bow! Black sails with slashes of white!"

One Shot Lestrade flew down the ropes, meeting first mate Watson on deck. The two of them stood over the spray as their captain advanced, eyes trained on the approaching vessel.

Captain S. Holmes came at a run while his brother, M. Holmes, strolled leisurely behind. He used his sword like a cane, tapping out a path while S pulled a heavy spyglass from his belt. The glass went over his first mate's shoulder.

"Light," he said, "built for speed. Deep grooves suggest she's taken a lot of fire this last fortnight. Six—"

"Seven," M drawled.

"—_seven _functional cannons. The sails… ha! They're webs…" the shoulder beneath the captain tensed. "Watson? You know this vessel?"

"Aye." S's second absently rubbed his shoulder where he'd taken a foot of steel years back. "Shore dwellers call her _The Spider_, but she bears no writing on her stern. First mate is The Tiger, Moran to some. We've tangled more than once."

"A spider and a tiger," S murmured. "Too bad we don't trade in exotic animals," and his crew laughed.

"I prefer something harder," Lestrade said, biting a coin.

"Their captain?"

"Moriarty."

"Moriarty, is it? Well now. Brother, drop anchor. Let's give our regards to these self proclaimed beasts."


	6. Bag

The residents of 221b went through a lot of milk.

Milk that went sour, milk that went green, milk that inexplicable began seeping through cracks in the carton. The milk was dumped, tainted, separated, dyed, boiled, frozen, steamed, and, on the rare occasion, actually drunk. It amounted to John doing a lot of shopping, which amounted to a lot of shopping bags.

Plastic bags, the kind that could be stuffed one inside another, endlessly. John threw them in the cabinet underneath the sink—next to Sherlock's bucket of horrors—and forgot about them.

That is, until he went to dispose of said bucket, a week after Sherlock's death.

In his need to remove memories John decided that even the bags had to go. He took a handful to the store, stuffing them into a THANK YOU FOR RECYCLING bin. Beside the bin was a collection of blue flowers, cheap and reminiscent of a certain scarf. John thrust his hand back inside, counted how many bags he'd brought, and purchased the same number of flowers.

He took them to Sherlock's grave.

This continued for two years—bags transforming into flowers.

750 days later, John trudged down the stairs of 221b.

"Here," he said. "For you," and enjoyed the rare look of surprise on Sherlock's face as he was handed a milk bag.


	7. Bluebell

John arrived back at the flat to a scene that was becoming all too familiar: the Holmes brothers, seated in opposite chairs, facing off in a juvenile—if admittedly intense—staring contest. It was a picture perfect in comparison to all of Mycroft's visits, right down to the placement of his umbrella.

That is, except for the rabbit.

The fluffy critter was settled happily in the British government's lap, pink nose twitching. Mycroft stroked him—her?—languidly and even with all the bunny's cuteness, the elder Holmes still looked like a middle-aged Bond villain.

"Dr. Evil, I presume?" John asked. Sherlock snorted and John tossed him the jumbo pack of plastic knives he'd requested. "Is this your Mr. Bigglesworth then?"

"Not quite." Mycroft smiled thinly, but his petting remained gentle. "I actually preferred his father, poor thing. Think she'll notice, Sherlock?"

"Oh _please._" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Wha—?"

Just then there was a frantic knocking at their door. A second later tiny feet were pounding up the stairs and a miniature body flew past John, nearly knocking him over. He caught an impression of braided pigtails and a backpack that had "Kirstie" on it in brilliant, gold glitter. The little girl shrieked, spotting the rabbit and tugging it insistently from Mycroft's hands.

"Bluebell!" she cried, laughing. "You found my Bluebell!"


	8. Boy

Mary yelped as cold spread across her stomach. Moriarty was back—possibly—and Scotland Yard was being labeled as England's largest collection of fools by the media, but all of that could damn well take a number while Mary got her ultra sound. Today was a baby day.

Just her and her husband.

And her husband's flatmate.

John took Mary's right hand while Sherlock fiddled with the left and her nurse cast all three of them confused glances.

"It's probably a girl," John announced happily to the room. He grinned behind him as murky images sprung up on the screen. "That's what the technician said last time. 'Probably a girl!'" He grinned some more but Mary ignored him, far more interested in Sherlock's first deductions on her child. He was squinting at the pictures and the hand in hers was getting twitchy.

"You've got that look," she accused. Sherlock jumped.

"Look? What look?"

"_That_look. Your look! The—the _look_. John!"

"Oh bloody hell." Everyone was staring at Sherlock now, except for the nurse who oddly seemed to think they should be looking at the baby. "You do. Fuck. Sherlock! What is it? What's wrong?"

"John…" he laughed a little, nervously. "You... realize Sherlock isn't actually a girl's name… right?"

"_No_—"

"Dr. Watson," the nurse insisted. "You're having a _boy_."


	9. Bait

Lestrade pulled tight against his bonds knowing it was useless but needing to do _something. _What was that they said? About people who indulged in actions again and again, stupidly expecting different results? Well, it wasn't _just_ stupidity. Lestrade pulled at the ties until they cut into his skin and squeaked against the metal of the chair. At least the gag was nearly free. He'd tongued it until he'd nearly swallowed it, and when that high-collared silhouette appeared Lestrade was able to let out a halfway scream.

"_Shemooock!_"

"Yes, yes, Lestrade, I'm here to rescue you." Sherlock strolled but his eyes danced everywhere, taking in what others couldn't see. Though not everything apparently because the arrogant sod didn't turn back. He didn't run even when Lestrade told him to (so much for reading minds.)

"Is it fascinating being the victim, Lestrade? I've always wanted to study the process, but no criminal has been clever enough to give me the chance. Such a pity."

"_Shem_—" He was close enough now that Lestrade gave up and attempted a kick. It amounted to him flexing his thigh.

"Well that's gratitude!" Sherlock swiped the gag away… and at that moment a gun was pressed to the back of his head.

"You're a little shit," Lestrade moaned. "I'm not the victim, Sherlock. I'm the _bait._"


	10. Bastard

Maybe it was the newspapers, John thought, watching as Sherlock tore apart his seventh napkin. How was he to have known they were a part of a "very long, very detailed, very much more important than _soaking up bathwater, John_" sociology experiment? Maybe it was his newly rescheduled date with Jane. Hell, maybe it was this case. Four hours in a café—Sherlock being subjected to society, John being subjected to Sherlock—and no murderer in sight. Whatever it was, it had Sherlock in a right foul mood.

"You know," John said, "You kicking me got old about twenty minutes ago." He winced when a size eleven connected with his shin. "Right. I'm getting another scone. Just keep an eye on my drink, yeah?"

While in line John's phone buzzed.

'_You really shouldn't say such things to him. MH.' _

Tiny shops like these had no need for security cameras. And yet…

'_Don't you have anything better to do than watch us drink coffee all day? JW'_

'_No. And he tends to take things literally when he's bored. MH.' _

Brow furrowed, John turned in time to see Sherlock pull a bare eye from his pocket, trailing just a bit of lint. Lazily he ran it along the rim and then plunked it into John's fresh cup of coffee.

"Oh. You're a bastard."


	11. Body

It took John an embarrassingly long time to notice Mrs. Hudson's collection of men. So many people allowed themselves free reign of 221b—clients, Sherlock's homeless network, the odd man of Mycroft's—that the occasional middle aged beer belly who knocked with flowers in his hand just didn't seem noteworthy.

When John did notice, he kinda wanted to scrub his brain out with bleach.

"Why aren't you stopping this?" he'd demanded the day he caught Mrs. Hudson tonguing a man wearing yellow Crocs.

"What? Mrs. Hudson's string of boy toys?"

"Wh—? Oh Jesus, _yes_!"

Sherlock had granted John a withering look. "Why in the world would I do that?"

"Well you do it to _me_." John crossed his arms. "How come the landlady gets a love life but I don't?"

"John. Don't be stupid, John." When the glare remained Sherlock threw up his hands. "If it makes you feel any better it's not as if any of them last! Or have you entirely missed that we have _twelve _abandoned umbrellas downstairs?"

Sherlock was right of course. A week later Mrs. Hudson was shoving the latest Mr. Potbelly out the door.

"Not the one?" John forced himself to ask. Dredge up some sympathy, soldier.

"No. It's so hard, dear." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Honestly. They've only ever loved me for my body."


	12. Boyfriend

"Hey, freak!"

That sound is a familiar one and John doesn't even flinch. He is disgusted with himself for becoming so desensitized to the word, though Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. He brushes by Donovan with an impressive disinterest, eyes focused on the acid-eaten corpse they've come to see. Even so, John curls his hands into fists as he walks by.

That particular word is used for over a year (for John that is; far longer for Sherlock) until one day they pin a man spitting and screaming to the pavement. He's enough of a psycho to have eaten three infants and yet he lifts his head, looks upon the man who caught him, and pronounces him "freak." John is too busy helping Lestrade to notice Donovan.

"Hey, asshole," she says a week later. Sherlock doesn't care, but John immediately halts; stares. Donovan looks away.

"Asshole" lasts all of a month. Then Sherlock saves her life in a shootout, covering her body entirely with his own. Donovan refuses to call him anything for weeks afterwards, until she eventually settles on "loser."

Then Sherlock jumps.

Two years later she's staring at John with relief and guilt and stubbornness that she'd just done her job. She bitches about his "boyfriend."

John is tempted to correct her—but stops.

He can deal with "boyfriend."


	13. Bloated

Mycroft was a man of reason and logic. He knew, as any simpleton did, that having an extra sugar in his morning coffee, a pick-me-up scone before lunch, and biscuits at the end of a tiring day couldn't be worked off by walking from his cars to his offices. Logically, he knew the mechanics of weight loss. Emotionally, it was a cycle. This:

"Gaining weight again?"

"Yes, you are."

"You'll be paying for two seats on your flights soon."

"Your tailor must be pleased. All that work letting out your trousers…"

—inevitably lead to a snack. Something sweet to help counteract the bitter.

As a logical man, Mycroft knew that he could only blame himself. He also knew that any responsibility Sherlock might hold could easily be filed under, "Failed Expressions of Sibling Affection—Sub-Category: Teasing."

But Sherlock was the closest thing to a friend that Mycroft had, as sad as that was, and for all Sherlock's deductions he didn't know (or didn't understand... or didn't care) about his part in this cycle. Nothing was said about the two incompatible bottles of diet pills that Mycroft left prominently on his desk.

Sherlock didn't know—and thus_ no one_ knew—that for all his power and finely crafted suits, Mycroft looked in the mirror each day and saw a man entirely bloated.


	14. Braids

Sherlock is running on three hours of sleep and twice the number of Nicotine patches. He's leaning heavily against the cab window, forehead bouncing every time they stop and go. He's resigned himself to a massive headache when suddenly there are hands—John's hands—pulling him down. Fingers thread into his hair and Sherlock whimpers at the feeling. He quickly sleeps and this quickly becomes a habit.

* * *

><p>Anderson is unparalleled in his stupidity and Sherlock is a breath away from screaming when he feels it. John has to stand on tiptoe to reach him and he only bestows two quick scratches before dropping back down. It should be insulting—being pet like a dog—but Sherlock only contains his purr because Lestrade is <em>right there. <em>

"Calm down," John says and he does.

* * *

><p>"Seriously?"<p>

John stands in the doorway, rumpled and grumpy. Sherlock had been playing loudly for the last hour and John sighs.

"I'm too tired to deal with your denial so straight out: if I give you ten minutes will you let me sleep?"

He'd hoped for fifteen, but Sherlock nods. They curl together on the couch, his head in John's lap, John's fingers in his hair.

"Don't fall asleep," John threatens.

He does. Sherlock wakes up relaxed, warm, and with all his curls done up in braids.


	15. Broken

Mrs. Hudson was in her kitchen when the explosion hit.

It rocked her forward into the sink, her arm flying out against the tap, water soaking into her dress. Other then a wet bosom and a screaming hip though, she was just fine. Less than a minute later she was off.

The stairs were intact—already an improvement from the explosion last spring—and Mrs. Hudson took her time, breathing steadily only because she knew both boys were out getting Chinese. They cared deeply for their possessions though, Sherlock especially, and thus it was with a coiled spring in her chest that she nudged open the door.

The couch was buried under glass and bits of wood. Every knick knack had hit the floor, though thankfully the skull had been nestled in the cushion of Sherlock's chair and remained there still. John's chair had tipped over and—

"Oh. Oh no."

Wincing, Mrs. Hudson lifted the chair and drew out the object beneath. She cradled it tearfully.

"_Mrs. Hudson!_"

Two panicky voices sounding from below. Her boys. They'd be up the stairs any second now and she resolutely turned her back to the door; let him have an extra second of ignorance.

Mrs. Hudson ducked and placed a kiss against the Stradivarius's neck. Beloved by all three residents and now irrevocably broken.


	16. Bored

"Have a biscuit, Watson."

John reached for one happily. It tasted slightly metallic from sitting in the tin, but at least he could be sure it hadn't been experimented on.

"How's my old house doing?" he asked. McGonagall snorted.

"Lagging 50 points behind Slytherin." She eyed him over her tea. "The new Defense teacher favors them. Sure I can't convince you to teach a class or two?"

"Not a chance." John laughed. "A muggle was killed last week with a wood chipper and Scotland Yard is in a frenzy. You're lucky Sherlock let me escape long enough for tea."

"Wood…? Oh never mind. So you're happy, Watson? Running around with this muggle boy?"

"Oh yes." John smiled at his old teacher. "You'd love him, Minerva, really. It's all logic all the time. And he makes the most _amazing _deductions. I was half convinced he was a legilimens when we first met, spent days re-checking my mental shields!" John laughed again. "You'd think someone so observant would have figured it out by now, but for all his genius Sherlock can be a bit of an idiot. Wizards… they don't fit with his worldview."

McGonagall shook her head. "But you will introduce us? Someday?"

"Oh yeah. He'll think it's Christmas. Once I tell Sherlock about magic I can guarantee he won't be bored."


	17. Bit

"What the _fuck_, Sherlock?"

John knew that asking the obvious—Did you just propose to get us access to an office? Magnussen's office? Did you just burn the heart out of a woman for a _case_?—would only encourage a lecture about his idiocy. So John resorted to a curse. More than that, he employed the tone of Captain John Watson and was able to smile bitterly when Sherlock jumped.

"Really, John." He edged slightly toward the other end of the elevator. "I only—"

"No. Don't you dare. Don't even start." John bit his own tongue and tasted blood. "You won't understand unless it's spelled out for you, so here you go: the closest approximate scenario to your own life would be if I, out of the blue, announced that I never gave a damn about your deductions. They're stupid, useless, and you're the fraud Richard Brook always said you were. Our partnership is over and you, Sherlock," John looked directly at his friend, "are a _freak_."

Sherlock had gone pale.

"You would never…" he started. Then stopped. Tried to start again. Failed.

"You're right. _I _never would. But that's exactly what you just did to Janine. What you're about to do."

The elevator dinged and drew open.

"So not good?" Sherlock asked, his voice small.

"Just a fucking bit."


	18. Bondage

It could—potentially, possibly—be said that Lestrade and Mycroft had a relationship. If that is, you defined a relationship as one man stalking the other. Also there wasn't really conversation. Just the stalking man asking the poor startled man questions…

… Yeah. It was weird.

The first question Mycroft ever asked him was, "What do you think of Sherlock Holmes, Inspector?" and for the first seven months their meetings (read: kidnappings) were just variations of this theme. The first time Mycroft asked, "And how are you?" Lestrade had been munching a roast beef sandwich and promptly choked. The thumps to his back and a gentle, "Better now?" only made him choke harder.

After that the questions became more personal. Creepily so: "How's the knee treating you?" (Old gunshot wound). "Are you aware that Sgt. Lester is an alcoholic?" (He was now). "Are you fond of macaroons, Gregory?" (Who _wasn't_?)

Eventually Lestrade posed a question of his own.

"What are you _doing_, Mycroft?"

Mycroft smirked. "Courting. Would you like to have dinner?"

Oddly enough… he would.

For the next year the questions were variations of "Are you sure?" and, much more importantly, "When will I see you again?" Until one day Mycroft picked Lestrade up and his smile, though small, was positively filthy.

"Now, Gregory. How do you feel about bondage?"


	19. Bottle

At any point one could expect three things to be within John Watson's reach: his consulting detective, his gun, and a stainless steel water bottle.

The material was rather unfortunate—the steel left a grimy taste that reminded John too much of Afghanistan—but it was paramount that it not be see-through. After all, anything could be inside.

Generally it was only juice, high in sugar and calories to keep them both going when there was no time for meals. Sherlock insisted on grape.

Sometimes it was a fine scotch stolen directly from Mycroft's decanter.

John had stored soda for Lestrade and those strange Pocky things for Sally (though once he realized they were just biscuits with chocolate he might have swiped a few).

The bottle collected samples for Sherlock—water, soil, hair clippings, bread (don't ask)—and it made for a decent hiding place. Once, in an absolute fit, Sherlock snatched it from John and marched off down an alleyway. He came back to the crime scene ten minutes later, unscrewed the top, and gleefully poured sixteen ounces worth of spiders down Anderson's collar.

Lestrade snatched the bottle and clobbered Sherlock over the head with it.

John used it in lue of an ice pack.

Truly, there are few things in this world as useful as a trustworthy water bottle.


	20. Beautiful

It was considered terrible bad luck for a groom to see his bride before the wedding, but this was an emergency.

John kicked the door to the bathroom in, causing outraged screams from multiple women holding makeup. Only Mary remained calm, smiling as John dodged the harpy trying to shoo him out. "Problem?" she asked.

"You could say that." John gritted his teeth. "Sherlock… lost the ring."

Dead silence. The women stopped tugging at him while Mary sighed.

"I don't know which is worse," he admitted. "This clusterfuck, or his panicking—"

"John?" One second it was just them, and then there was Anthea, texting. She held out a ring box. "Courtesy of Mycroft," she said. "Footage shows the ring was lost in an experiment, unbeknownst to Sherlock. This is an exact replica of what you had chosen and he hopes it proves satisfactory."

"Uh, yeah." John said faintly. "That's… great. Thanks."

"Good." To his shock Anthea actually looked up. "Congratulations" she added and then was gone.

"Well," Mary chirped. "That's one crisis averted." She patted his hand. "Best go calm Sherlock."

"Course. … We can do this?"

"Yes we can."

"No more crises?"

"None at all."

"Right."

John straightened his suit, a soldier heading into battle. At the last second he turned and smiled. "By the way? You look _beautiful._"


	21. Bees

"They're dying."

It didn't matter that he'd look like a fool on Mycroft's hidden surveillance footage. John dropped the toast he'd been buttering, grabbed the nearest weapon—a strainer—and leapt out into the living room ready to fight, if only because Sherlock had sounded so _serious. _

But his flatmate appeared fine, if a bit distraught. He sat at the computer, compulsively gripping his hair.

"Who's dying?" John demanded.

"The _bees_," and Sherlock swiveled the laptop to show a report on, yes, the recent, unexplained drop in bee population. John was a heartbeat away from smacking him with the strainer when he noticed… well, everything.

How Sherlock was really gripping his scalp hard enough to hurt. That there were some twenty other tabs open. The correspondence John had spotted last week from a local apiculturist. The last month's erratic sleeping patterns. Sherlock's increasing refusal to eat. How after a chase, coming down off adrenaline, Sherlock had admitted to wanting to give it all up someday. Retire to the Sussex Downs with nothing but experiments, John… and bees.

For once in his life, John well and truly deduced.

"Treat it like a case," he suggested and steel entered his friend's eyes. "Can you solve it?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"Good."

John looked forward to his next blog post: Sherlock Holmes Saves the Bees.


	22. Bell

"I'm going to put a bell on you."

It gave Mycroft great pleasure to see John leaning against one of his cars, forehead pressed resignedly to the window. He may be the ex-soldier, but Mycroft still had ways of… sneaking up on people.

"A bell," John insisted. "Like a _cow_."

"Moo?" Mycroft asked, face impassive. The grunt John gave against the glass might have been a laugh…

That was satisfying too.

* * *

><p>It became a bit of a game between them. Mycroft did everything within his considerable power to catch John Watson unawares while John did his best to remain vigilant. Mycroft knew he had an unfair advantage: surveillance, minions, unmarked cars, his brother's inability to keep John well rested or fed. Sometimes it seemed too easy… and then John would succeed in vanishing for a (brief) period or would send a knowing, offensive gesture at one of his cameras.<p>

It kept things interesting.

* * *

><p>Christmas Day. For the first time Mycroft had a gift not from his parents or Sherlock. Nor was it a bribe disguised in wrapping paper. Already knowing what it was didn't lessen that.<p>

"Well go on," his mother prompted. Sherlock snickered. "Open it!"

It clanged on the way out.

His father took the gift, eyebrows raised.

"John… Mind explaining why you got my son a bell?"


	23. Blow

John needed to learn how to smoke.

This certainly wasn't something he'd decided on his own. Hell no. When John was seven his Aunt Clara coughed up blood on the pancakes she was making him. His breakfast was trashed—obviously—Aunt Clara lasted nine months, and long before he became enamored with medical studies John swore that he'd never touch a cigarette.

"Sorry, Aunt Clara," he muttered, taking one from the ashtray (only consolation was that it was stolen from Buckingham Palace.)

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You feel guilty," he stated.

"I feel like an idiot."

"It's essential." He took a drag and blew the smoke delicately out the window. No reason for Mrs. Hudson to know. "Mr. Lollinger frequents his club. Only members can access the club. All members smoke." Sherlock shrugged, eyes fixed away. "I need you with me."

John nodded, resigned.

Already knowing what was to come, he drew in a bit of smoke—and then promptly began coughing.

"No, no, no. God you're awful." Sherlock's hands were at his chest, loosening. "Club members are _good _smokers, John. Try it again. Slowly and steadily. It should be _savored_." John felt his lungs expanding, vibrating with the rich, foreign substance. Sherlock smiled.

"Excellent. Now be sure to finish. What was that ridiculous quote? 'Just put your lips together and… blow.'"


	24. Brim

A/N: This is sort of a follow up to the chapter "Bored" but it definitely stands on its own. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>John grinned as he slid into the Headmaster's office. It really was priceless: Sherlock's bug-eyed look at all things magical, Mycroft desperately trying to brush floo powder from his suit.<p>

"Scourgify," He said casually. Good. Both were bug-eyed now.

"Sorry you can't meet Albus just yet," John continued, watching Sherlock gape at his brother's clothes. "He's a real hoot. I do, however, want you to meet another old friend." Carefully, John took the Sorting Hat down from its perch.

"Let me guess," Sherlock croaked. "It produces rabbits?"

"_Certainly not!_" The Hat cried and Sherlock reared back. Mycroft raised his umbrella like a sword and John guffawed until he cried. "Mr. Watson! You keep company with these fools?"

"They're muggles," he explained and happily stuck the hat on his head so it could get the whole story. "I was hoping maybe… you could sort them?"

"Sort…? Hmm." The Hat was silent a long time.

"But you already know where they belong," he finally murmured.

"Huh." John agreed. He turned to his flatmate. "Ravenclaw. Seems a bit obvious though."

"Obvious is not necessarily wrong. And him?" John turned to Mycroft.

"Appears Slytherin, but…"

"But?"

"Gryffindor" John said decisively. "Loyalty to his country and his brother." Mycroft blinked.

Sherlock stood dumfounded.

It was great.

"Well done, Watson." John grinned again, tipping the Hat's brim.


	25. Balloons

Lestrade had a favorite saying around Sherlock: "If you're going to act like a child, then I'm going to treat you like one." Over the years this had changed from a threat to an actual lifestyle…

Everyone and their mother knew that Sherlock didn't eat while on a case but Lestrade learned quickly that slipping his friend anything sugary—chocolates, cookies, literal packets of sugar—would result in their disappearance.

Naps were good—Sherlock's brain almost never shut down for an entire night.

He threw temper tantrums, became manically ecstatic over the simplest things, his favorite question was, "Why, why, _why_?"

Basically Sherlock was a child in a man's body and Lestrade had resigned himself to playing father.

On today's agenda, John was recovering from a stab wound and Sherlock refused to leave his side. However, an unconscious John was boring, so Lestrade had popped a movie in before Sherlock could start terrorizing the nurses. Some film called _Up. _All Lestrade knew what that his kid nephew was obsessed with it and if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for Sherlock.

In actuality of course, Lestrade had expected disaster. Instead he came back to find the credits rolling and Sherlock bouncing excitedly in his seat.

"Lestrade, quick! An experiment. I need an abandoned house and 10,000 balloons!"


	26. Buoyant

"What do you mean you can't swim?!"

Sherlock shrugged, his shoulders pressing into the back of the couch. When John continued to splutter at him he chucked the remote petulantly.

"It's not as if it's a useful skill," he huffed, waving away John's screech of disagreement. "For a consulting detective, John. London's my place of operation. What, is a criminal mastermind going to throw me into the Thames?"

"This gets out? They just might." John said. "What a terribly easy, embarrassing way to get rid of Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please. You'd jump in after me."

"I wouldn't."

"You would."

"Well regardless you need to learn." John insisted.

"I_ did_ learn. Mummy's fault."

"… and then you deleted it."

"Brilliant deduction."

"You're learning again."

"I'm not."

"You _are_."

* * *

><p>Had John bothered to consult Mycroft about this he would have learned of such an endeavor's futility (as well as some horrifying childhood stories. Pity that.). Turns out there was a reason Sherlock had deleted swimming lessons.<p>

As it was, John dragged Sherlock to the public pool. Three hours later—with skinned knees, bruising to his left elbow, tufts of hair missing, a floatie stuck around his neck, and possibly developing pneumonia—John lead a miserable Sherlock back to the flat.

He was a genius, yes. He was _not _buoyant.


	27. Bishop

Since the Stag Night From Hell Lestrade was determined to see Sherlock drunk again. (Or rather, drunk at all. He'd only seen the aftermath last time). Donovan and Anderson too. ("Bet you he's a sad drunk. Cries into his deerstalker"). Molly wanted in on it… ("… no reason… really!). So it was that John and Sherlock were invited to the annual Met Holiday Bash where copious amounts of alcohol were to be found

Takeaway eaten and gifts exchanged, it was time for Operation Waste the Baker Street Boys.

The operation was a success.

"Sheeeeeerlock?" John stumbled in the vague direction of Lestrade's office and—oh look. That's a Lestrade. John held up a warning finger.

"I don't want shouting," he said. "I want Sherlock."

"Okay, John. Sure. He's playing chess."

"… Chessssss?"

"Uh huh." Lestrade sounded like he was choking. "_Beer_ chess." He stepped aside and yep, Sherlock had appropriated the checkered floor of his office. Each square had a different shot on it, colored on with sharpie. A grinning Sally watched as Sherlock captured her "knight"… and drank it down.

"The better you are, the more you drink." Lestrade muttered. "Dear fucking god. Wonder if he'll manage to win."

"Yes." Sherlock declared, reeling. He gleefully moved a shot forward. "Y'all are pawns and I'm king." He hiccupped. "Beware my bishop!"


	28. BlackBerry

The most important object in the world wasn't a document. Or a weapon. It was, in fact, a BlackBerry.

Which of course was really both in the right hands.

Anthea's hands.

"You must be quite fond of him." Mr. Holmes watched her perusing Dr. Watson's updated file. The fact that she bothered with a paper copy rather than having one emailed to her was… telling.

"I am," she admitted. "He's nice."

John was more than nice. He was a friend. He always brought her a snack for their rides (the Holmes brothers weren't the only ones who forgot to eat) and after eight months Anthea trusted his hand on her arm, guiding her over rough pavement so she needn't look up from typing. He was, to this date, the only one who'd been given a false name and just… ran with it.

"Don't lose it," Mr. Holmes cautioned her, only half jokingly. "You and that phone are important."

Anthea knew. She was the only one who truly knew how important this little BlackBerry was. She wouldn't give it up. Not for anything.

But even Mycroft's cars could be hijacked and even John Watson could be caught unawares. The man pressed a gun to John's head.

"Give it," he said, growling and spitting. "_Now_."

Mycroft would understand.

Anthea threw him the BlackBerry.


	29. Bulk

"I had the strangest dream."

For the first time in a year Sherlock was actually cooking breakfast. John's statement apparently wasn't worth looking up from the eggs.

"Seriously," he insisted. John sat, the combination of his dream and Sherlock's domesticity making him a bit faint. "I was named Arthur Dent."

Sherlock did turn at that, giving an amused cough. His eyes scanned John's face.

"It suits you," he said.

"Don't go getting ideas. But Arthur—me Arthur—was pretty fantastic, I gotta say. He was running around with a bunch of aliens, hopping from planet to planet. Kinda like a space pirate. In a bathrobe."

"Uh huh."

Sherlock's interest was gone and even bringing in pirates couldn't get it back. He was too engaged in poking the bacon.

"I need to conduct more tests on bruising," He said, still poking. "This time with a length of plywood. How many times should I—"

"Forty-two."

Sherlock whirled. His eyes narrowed.

"That was decisive of you."

"Yep." John grinned, feeling triumphant. "It's the answer to life, the universe, and everything. At least according to my dream."

"Huh." A bit of egg dropped from the spatula. "…Your dream say anything else?"

"Yeah, actually. Towels are important. Like, _really _important."

"Ah." Sherlock turned back to his cooking. "… I'll have Mrs. Hudson buy some in bulk."


	30. Burned

John wasn't the only writer of 221b.

Even before Sherlock immersed himself in Moriarty's network he was cut off from the world at large. No cell phone, no laptop, nothing that could potentially be hacked and reveal Sherlock's less than dead status. For the first four months it was paramount that only Mycroft pull the strings. So Sherlock paced in a dingy apartment, slowly going mad.

He needed drugs—unacceptable.

He needed John—unavailable.

But Sherlock's imagination was nearly as sharp as his wit and in time he had a John— of sorts. He was crueler than the real John though, throwing out quips that sounded like they came from Mycroft's, or sometimes even Anderson's mouth. When Sherlock found himself screaming maliciously in return he knew that trying to replace John had been a mistake. An impossibility.

So he wrote to the real John instead.

They were letters of logistics—how the web would be dismantled, strand by strand. Before long though he talked about why. Sherlock was doing it _for_ John, because of John. This work was for him.

Yet a part of Sherlock knew that justification didn't negate grief. Many letters were just: "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

When Sherlock came back and faced John's anger the words got stuck. He couldn't say them…

...and all his letters had been burned.


	31. Body II

Sherlock had a reputation for success. No matter the crime he could wheedle out the answer, and more often than not he could restore a bit of what was lost. If one person threatened another Sherlock would discover a name and hand back his client their sense of safety. Jewels were returned to their safes, strings of numbers reappeared, prized dogs trot back to their kennels, crumbling documents slipped into drawers, and anything else that might disappear always reemerged— in one manner or another. The only thing Sherlock couldn't restore was life, but the victims of murder could at least be given the murderers.

Then there were kidnappings.

It should have been simple. Elementary. Objectively speaking there was no more worth in a six-year-old child than in a diamond necklace (and many would consider the necklace preferable). Furthermore, both could be returned with equal ease. A child of that size was presented to a client just like a dog, or a bracelet, or a handful of papers. The only difference was that a child squirmed more.

Yet when Stacey Rollin went missing… well. Women wept for their diamonds, but they never screamed. Men raged over losing a prized dog, but they never threatened to kill.

In the end Sherlock always had something to return.

He just hoped it wasn't Stacey's body.


	32. Brandy

Mike Stamford wasn't the most popular bloke. Nothing wrong with that, he just kept a close circle of friends and preferred a pint in rather than out at the bar. This meant though that he didn't get a whole lot of correspondence (not including the typo-filled emails from his gran). He certainly couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a letter.

It sat rather innocently on his front step, propped on a pillow-sized box wrapped in white paper. The letter itself was of heavy stock, expensive and personalized.

It read:

_Stamford, _

_Society dictates that I thank you for finding me a flatmate. Boring. I will, however, thank you for the following:_

_2 years (and counting) at 221b._

_17 cases that would have previously been ignored. _

_5 hair cuts._

_7 reality TV shows. _

_9 months devoid of any cravings. _

_486 unexpectedly enlightening and/or not entirely boring conversations. _

_72 learned medical facts. _

_19 learned medical techniques. _

_12 new restaurants to frequent. _

_12.2% increase in sleep._

_4.8% increase in consumption. _

_135 cartons of milk (see above on consumption). _

_228 experiments conducted without interruption, interference, or complaint. _

_730 days with company. _

_1 life— saved many, many times._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sherlock Holmes._

The box contained only two things: a picture of John and Sherlock clipped from last week's paper and a bottle of _very _expensive brandy.


	33. Bond

In a world just off the left of this one there is a John Watson who never limped past Mike Stamford. Instead, keenly feeling the ache in his leg, he stopped six yards from Mike's bench, cut across the grass, and hailed a cab.

A cab driven by Jefferson Hope.

The boys lost six days together. It wasn't until—finally—Sherlock worked out the riddle of who hid in plain sight, hacked into the cab company's records, discovered Jefferson Hope, tracked down his recent—still living—fares…

And discovered John Watson.

Beneath this world, buried deeper than anyone would like, there is a Sherlock Holmes who never gave up cocaine. It all came down to a wild man with a knife who instead of stabbing Lestrade in the arm, succeeded in hitting his heart. With no Lestrade to dangle cases as an incentive Sherlock had no reason to give up the drugs. London had no consulting detective and John Watson, upon coming home, had no reason not to shoot himself.

Except that he still didn't.

Instead, craving a medical emergency he ventured out and found a man with an addiction. A man who not only needed a doctor, but also said the most astounding things…

There are other worlds.

Numerous worlds.

There are few things stronger than their strange, particular bond.


	34. Biscuit

"So what about you, Mycroft?"

It was a new habit of John's: asking questions that related to conversations they'd had days, sometimes even weeks earlier, in the hope of catching the omniscient Holmes brothers off guard. Sherlock peeked at Mycroft's sour expression and grinned.

John blinked innocently.

"What about me, Dr. Watson?" Oh. Mycroft only used "Doctor" when he was annoyed.

"What did you want to be when you were little?" John asked. "I know Sherlock wanted to be a pirate, but what was your dream?"

"Oh for god's sake." The trick had been on him after all. Sherlock turned away from John's earnest smile and Mycroft's surprise. "He wanted to be a pastry chef, the fat sloth."

"_Sherlock!_"

The reprimand came double, with Mycroft's voice carrying a tinge of embarrassment.

"I'd best be off," he murmured and hurried out.

John didn't speak to Sherlock for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>John's encouragement over the next few months was both obvious and sickening. He apologized to Mycroft on Sherlock's behalf (dull), asked if he ever found the time to bake (what), and lent him a beloved cookbook bequeathed from his grandmother (WHAT). Sherlock expected Mycroft to consider John's so-called support as ridiculous as he did…<p>

Except that three months later John suddenly had an endless supply of slightly misshapen biscuits.


	35. Bump

"Back of the bus!"

John used surprise to his advantage and shoved passed Lestrade, nearly upending him onto the nearby seat.

"Oy!" The shout came from outside; Anderson knocked his fist against the window. "Don't cripple the goalie!"

Lestrade's glare changed targets—he wasn't _crippled_, thank you—and John used the distraction to trot to safety and—yes!—secure the backseat. He gestured for Sherlock to hurry, patting the space beside him.

The Met was playing the Queen's Guard in a football match. John was thrilled to get back in the game. That, and seeing Sherlock in a jersey was pretty spectacular. He grinned like a loon when long limbs folded themselves to his left.

"Your insistence on claiming this spot is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled. "I thought the 'back of the bus' was for losers and misfits."

"Haven't you ever been on a school bus? No, wait. Weird ass childhood. How could I forget. That's actually pretty sad." John ignored his flatmate's scoff and peered over the seat in front of him—past Sally flicking peanuts, past Lestrade applying sunscreen (The sun was out?), past the forensics team, through the windshield… and there it was.

"Get ready!" John basked for a moment in Sherlock's confusion. "Elementary school lesson: the back seat provides the longest air time when going over speed bumps!"


	36. Bruises

Sherlock was obsessed with John's body.

He pulled up pictures of them taken by the press, marveling at John's squatness in comparison to his length; the paradox that they could each simultaneously command the image.

He stole bits to save: hair from pillows and nail clippings from the bin. Once, gloriously, a tooth, dislodged in a fight. Sherlock took a kick to the back in order to retrieve it.

After this the thought of losing John's body in any portion became abhorrent. It could change, it should change—representing new, stronger versions of John—but Sherlock couldn't bear for those past versions to be forgotten. He saved the jeans John discarded and kept a detailed journal of all his scents. Sherlock glared at John's scar because there were no pre-war pictures of him without a shirt and Sherlock would never know what his shoulder looked like without it.

John noticed, and sometimes he even accommodated the obsession, more so after The Return. He learned that after cases gone wrong Sherlock's desire to remember his battered body was not the same thing as wanting to see him hurt. People always said they wanted all of you, but only Sherlock meant it.

So John lay still. He allowed Sherlock to take a permanent marker to his side, tracing the outlines of fading bruises.


	37. Burns

"Can I see it?"

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had asked a random question, seemingly out of the blue, but this time John knew instinctually what he wanted.

"Yeah. Sure."

He closed the door—hoping that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't barge in and discover more fuel for her rumors—and then quickly shucked his jumper. Immediately Sherlock was at his side, fingers dancing over his scar.

"No exit wound," he murmured, touching a ridge. "They had to dig it out. You were kneeling—" Sherlock's mouth suddenly snapped shut. Again John knew what he wasn't asking.

"It wasn't my dad," he said dryly and before he'd met Sherlock's ordinary, obviously doting father John wouldn't have dared to make such a joke. "They were buddies. Three comrades I'd had for the whole run. We were close in a battlefield sort of way, you know? And all of us were accumulating scars. Smaller ones." John pulled up his jeans to show the scratches on his calf. "If we had to come out battered we wanted a say in how it was done. It was about… control. Having control. Even if only a little."

Sherlock nodded and silently moved away. Before he left entirely though his hand shot out again, bestowing a caress on John's side. There, carefully placed, were three distinct cigarette burns.


	38. Bail

Lestrade was the only man in London with fifteen bank accounts.

They started popping up when he agreed to let a pale, but now relatively steady Sherlock Holmes onto his crime scenes. That night Lestrade went to bed with just enough for regular orders of Chinese and the hope of retirement someday. He awoke to a second account labeled "Damages" that had more zeroes in it than Lestrade had pairs of socks.

Ten minutes later he got the call that their new "Consulting Detective" had crashed three squad cars. Two hours later it was _Lestrade's _car that was totaled. The account suddenly split into two: "Damages—Met" and "Damages—Personal."

"My brother's paying you off." Sherlock growled, looking far too put out considering that this was _all his fault._ Lestrade was just relieved to find out where the hell the money was coming from. "Next he'll be supplementing your wardrobe."

That afternoon another account appeared—"Wardrobe." Feeling spiteful, Lestrade went and bought more socks.

"Food." "Lab Equipment." "Overtime" (ha). One was ominously titled "Incentive" which Lestrade never, ever touched. The rest was fair game.

The night of John's stage party his phone dinged in a way he'd only heard fifteen times before. Lestrade checked the new account and laughed, knowing his friends were having a great time.

It was labeled "Bail."


	39. Back II

8:05 am—Happy birthday, Sherlock.

8:07 am –Don't know why I'm doing this.

8:07 am—Janet says that I should write more. Not on my blog. It's "problematized."

8:08 am—Not that I give a damn.

8:08 am—Doing this feels weird though.

8:08 am—Crazy.

8:22 am— …God. You'd love it, wouldn't you?

* * *

><p>10:27 am—Mrs. Hudson baked you a cake.<p>

10:29 am—That's even weirder, right?

10:30 am—I mean, who the hell bakes a cake for a dead man?

10:30 am—It's not like you're going to eat it.

10:32 am—Hell, not like you would have eaten it if you were alive.

10:35 am— … I'll eat a piece for you.

10:40 am—Better yet, want me to see how many slices I can guilt Mycroft into having?

* * *

><p>11:50 am—Three.<p>

11:54 am—Maybe I'll start a tradition. The Dead Man's Cake Eating Contest.

11:57 am—Jesus I'm tired.

* * *

><p>2:28 pm—Lestrade thinks you're going to haunt me.<p>

2:30 pm— If you start moaning at 3:00 am I will kill you.

2:31 pm— Again.

* * *

><p>11:24 pm—Okay yeah. I get it alright?<p>

11:24 pm—Your birthday. I'm supposed to be getting _you_ presents.

11:24 pm—But fuck it all I want one.

* * *

><p>11:59 pm— … Please, Sherlock. Please text back.<p> 


	40. Band-Aid

As awful as it was to contemplate, there did come a time when Mrs. Hudson passed on.

For years John had assumed that it would come from a case: some sicko would put a bullet through her head and he'd spend the rest of his life battling down the guilt. Instead, he came home and found Mrs. Hudson lying diagonally across her kitchen floor, the smell of urine permeating the air.

At first John had only felt anger, fury really, that the stroke had taken her dignity along with her life. The guilt came anyway though, no matter how illogical its presence was now. Beyond the guilt and the anger and the many drunken fights however, John thought that he was handling it all rather well. After all, he'd dealt with tragedy before and as much as he'd loved Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's "death" had gutted John in ways that hers never could.

He prepared the funeral arrangements. Wrote condolences. John was practical. Though perhaps he wasn't as good at this as he'd imagined because John failed to notice Sherlock.

He found him like he'd found Mrs. Hudson: lying across her kitchen floor, eyes red-rimmed and taking in every, horrible detail.

John let him look. Sherlock's expression said it all. Any comfort would only be treating a mortal wound with a Band-Aid.


	41. Bones

There was sand, and heat, and pops sounding in his ears that made his whole body jerk like a marionette on strings. John fell forward and filled his mouth with burning dirt. Tiny rocks wedged themselves between his teeth, filling up every crevice, and that fullness crept up into his throat until everything seized and John couldn't breathe. He could cough and choke and crush the rocks beneath his tongue but no air was getting through and he couldn't breathe, good god he was going to die here, not even by a bullet but from a fucking mouthful of dirt because he _couldn't breathe_—

Then John gasped. A brief, wonderful gulp of air before it cut off again. He bucked, very much awake now, scrambling at the hand that covered his mouth.

"John. John, stop. You can't scream. John!"

The voice was a fierce whisper against his ear but the hand remained, even when John bit. Slowly, so slowly, awareness returned. The case. Breaking into Duggerson's house. Hiding in the pantry.

"You can't scream. Understand?" Sherlock. John nodded frantically. He did nearly whimper though when the hand was finally removed.

"For god's sake. Did you really have to have a nightmare _now_?"

The words were harsh, but Sherlock's other hand gripped John's, grounding him, seeping warmth deep down into his bones.


	42. Bean

Sherlock had lost his taste for fairy tales after their run in with Moriarty. He used to find them fascinating; psychological profiles couched in fictional wrappings. Which of his clients was playing at being a princess? Who out there dressed as a prince in order to hide that they were really a beast? Fables had been close to becoming an indispensible resource for his work… until John tore open a package and bread crumbs scattered across their front porch.

He shivered. He jittered his leg. Sherlock did everything but acknowledge the little boy and his stupid book of fairy tales.

"Where's mommy?" The boy asked, voice small.

"Out with my associate."

"What's 'associate'?"

"A word that's too big for your developing brain to understand. Can you even read that?"

"No." The boy admitted. "But I like the pictures." He drew open the book and gazed longingly at one of the enchanted worlds. Sherlock frowned at the bruises on his wrist. Not the father—he was missing. Uncle then.

"Here," Sherlock snapped and pulled a box from beneath his chair's cushion. (Who knew why it was stuffed down there). The boy took is shyly and then gasped at the prize inside.

"Does… does it work?" he asked.

"No, but you can pretend."

The boy nodded seriously and pocketed the tiny, non-magical bean.


	43. Best

Very quickly—at the age of four to be exact—John established himself as an athletic child.

The best part of staying with Grandma was the tiny TV she kept in her bedroom and while she cooked crepes for breakfast John got to gorge himself on cartoons. He'd determined that the bureau opposite the television provided the best vantage point, so he pulled out all the drawers, channeled a monkey, and an hour later Grandma found him sitting on top, sneakered feet resting in her underwear drawer.

The fact that he didn't fall was a miracle. The first of many.

John spent the rest of his youth climbing anything that was at least twice his height. His school years were devoted to rugby, then boxing (his friend Lester needed a hand. Or rather, a fist). Adulthood was war…

Then there was Sherlock, who was a kind of war all his own.

How did John survive it all? Miracles. Which was probably why he was still alive right now. Eighty-three years old and sporting a hundred bee stings (an… accident with Sherlock's hives). He was probably going to die here, suffocating, but who the hell knew at this point. Really, the odds were probably in his favor.

But miracle or no, John was at peace.

It had all been for the best.


	44. Beat (1 of ?)

During the winter of 1887, on a particularly blustering night, I had just put my feet up when I was astounded to hear a knock at our door. Fearing that the pounding would awaken Holmes I rushed down and found Lestrade hunched on our doorstep, face pale and coat disheveled. Upon my opening the door he immediately sized me by my dressing gown. Given his appearance, I half expected to find spirits on his breath.

"Where is Holmes?" he demanded.

"Asleep. Good god, man. Has there been a murder?" To my shock Lestrade laughed. The humor rocked him unsteadily.

"Nothing of the kind, Doctor. No! It is only that I have either lost leave of my senses or I have witnessed the impossible!" I goggled.

"Lestrade, really—"

"Someone mentioned the impossible?"

Holmes stood at the top of the steps, rather bright eyed for having just woken.

"Lestrade?" he prompted.

"I saw—" The detective inspector hesitated. "I swear, Holmes. By all I hold dear. I saw _you. _Younger and dressed in the strangest clothes. He called to a man named John…" To my surprise Holmes' expression held nothing but acceptance.

"How fascinating. You must tell me everything."

"But—"

"No, no Lestrade. This is of the upmost importance, I'm sure. Telegraph the Yard. Tonight someone else must walk your beat."


	45. Billfold (2 of ?)

The story Lestrade told was nothing short of astonishing.

I had found us tea, tiptoeing about the kitchen so as not to wake dear Mrs. Hudson, and then we sequestered ourselves around Holmes' armchair. My friend had tipped his head back and steepled his hands beneath his chin. It was this familiar position more than anything else that proved to me he truly believed in the madness that Lestrade was sprouting.

"But what can you possibly mean by it being Holmes?" I spluttered. "Holmes is here!"

Lestrade simply muttered into his tea. "Stature, bone structure, that _coat._"

"A look alike," I insisted.

"He called himself Sherlock."

"An _obsessive _look alike," I growled.

"Then what do you make of this 'John,' Watson?" The real Holmes asked. "One man of remarkably similar appearance is possible, but two…?" he raised a disbelieving brow.

Lestrade nodded. "It was you, Doctor. Just ah… younger, if you'll excuse my saying so." I glared at him dutifully.

"Inspector!" Holmes sprang from his seat, throwing things this way and that. "These men. Where did you say you spotted them?"

"Highland Street. Right beside the old textile factory."

"Excellent. If my suspicions are correct they may still be there."

I knew well where this was heading…

"I'll retrieve my coat," I sighed.

"Indeed, Watson! Your revolver too—and your billfold!"


	46. Before (3 of ?)

The fact that I was the one paying for our nightly excursion hardly improved my temper.

"Come now, old man," Holmes said, once we'd settled into our cab. "Where is that sense of adventure I know so well?"

"I fear that it has died of cold," I drawled, drawing my coat closer. Lestrade remained uncharacteristically silent. As did I, until: "Holmes! I simply cannot see the purpose of chasing such a fanciful tale. No matter the source," I added.

"As time passes I hardly believe it myself," Lestrade murmured. "What utter nonsense I have been claiming," and he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of our cab's window.

At this sign of our mutual friend's dejection the teasing glint flickered out of Holmes' eyes. To my astonishment, he lent a hand to Lestrade's shoulder.

"My apologies for the fun I've been having at your expensive. Both of you. You have every right in this instance to doubt your senses and," Holmes turned to me, "to doubt my reasoning. Indeed, I too would be derisively skeptical, were I not who I am."

"Then you have noticed something in this 'case' that we have not?" I asked and Holmes gave a sharp smile.

"Not quite, Watson. I am convinced that we have a case because this has happened to me once before."


	47. Bizarre (4 of ?)

"What?" I cried just as Lestrade let out an equally shocked exclamation. Holmes nodded, staring pensively into his lap. I grasped at something, anything to make sense of such an announcement.

"Surely you jest—?"

"Do I?" Holmes laughed softly. "I had no idea my humor was of such an exotic variety. No, Watson. I speak only the truth."

"Then for god's sake explain it, man!" Lestrade demanded. He looked as if he would begin steaming when Holmes only shrugged.

"There is little to explain," he said. "Though I admit, I have had nearly a lifetime to come to terms with my odd little encounter. It was while I was still in university you see. I had long made use of the school's laboratory during what many would consider abnormal hours and it was one night, at nigh three o'clock, that I encountered a man who appeared to be my equal in both appearance and skill. It was like looking in a mirror and I would have suspected my father of deceitfulness were I not positive that Mycroft and I were his only kin. This man was perhaps a tad older than I at the time, though his only true distinguishing trait was that he spoke Russian."

"Russian." Lestrade said faintly.

"Indeed. Can you imagine? The thought alone is quite bizarre."


	48. Building (5 of ?)

"And what did this… Russian Holmes want?" Lestrade asked.

"I can't claim to know, Inspector. He was gone before I could mount an investigation. Looking back, I have good reason to believe that I was not the first double he had encountered. For one, he hardly seemed fazed by the event and his quick departure was also quite telling. I cannot believe that any version of me would abandon such an extraordinary encounter unless he—I—already knew that engaging in conversation was a precarious choice." Holmes leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Perhaps it is foolish of me then to chase another double… but I cannot abide an unsolved mystery."

"Holmes…" I cleared my throat. "This…"

"Appears impossible?"

"Yes!"

"Yet I have experienced it. You know me, Watson. I am a man of logic, but logic is only dictated by what men already understand. Tell me that swine fly and I will sneer your way… until I see them spreading their wings for myself. I have seen a version of myself and thus I will not sneer at Lestrade's assertion that he saw the same."

"Very well then, Holmes, but what does it _mean_? Scientists have theorized about other realities, other realms, but…"

"Let us find out then," Holmes said, just as our cab pulled up beside a large, stone building.


End file.
